Stop being selfish.
He would. He would stop. But the selfishness stirred nonetheless, along with a possessive hunger.
You could have her.
Ask her to be yours.
He dismissed the thought as soon as it came. She wouldn’t want him. And he’d already planned the rest of his life—it was meant to be a life alone, a life free from memories and free from violating those memories by wedding another.
I can’t.
And that was when Eleanor started moving.
It took Jarrell a long minute to realize what was happening, to understand that her contented little snuggles had turned into a restless seeking, and by then it had become all too clear what was driving her restlessness. Her eyelids fluttered as with fervid dreams, and the tips of her breasts were drawn up tight against his chest under her chemise. Splotches of color bloomed on her cheeks as she began arching against him.
He tried to roll away, onto his back, but even he could recognize it wasn’t a very valiant attempt at escape. And she followed him anyway like a needy kitten, rubbing herself against him, pressing her cunt against his thigh and riding it in slow, sleepy waves.
He should stop her. She didn’t know what she was doing, and she’d be mortified when she woke up, and his body was strung so tight he feared it would snap. He feared he’d shove up her chemise and kiss her awake—but not on the mouth.
Somehow, he managed not to move, not to touch her other than to support her with his arm as she found her release against his body. As she awakened with a small smile on her lips and sweet, sated eyes fluttering open.
And now here they were, both sitting upright and studying each other, embarrassment, guilt, desire, relief—all of it staining the moment between them.
Chapter Seven
Choices to make, he’d said.
She adjusted the blanket over her shoulders and tried to meet the duke’s inscrutable gaze with a steady one of her own. Steady gaze, steady heart, steady Eleanor.
It was a lie. She didn’t feel steady at all. Her body still thrummed from release, her mind brimmed and bristled with scores of contradictory thoughts, and her heart couldn’t decide if it belonged in her throat or in her stomach. It wasn’t unpleasant—the heart feeling—but it did mean that any time the duke did anything—lift a hand, furrow his brow, breathe—her insides melted again and all she wanted to do was giggle. Or purr.
Not steady at all. And why should she be? She’d just—
And in her chemise—
And he’d let her—
He’d let her.
Heat bloomed in her stomach all over again, thinking about how he’d held her as she moved against him. She’d found those releases before, but always by herself and always with some effort. But experiencing it with someone else, and so easily—
Should she be embarrassed? Was she embarrassed?
Yes. A little. Maybe a lot. It wasn’t done to find release in the arms of a fiancé’s relatives, probably not even in the Foscourts’ circle. Even though she’d just thrown her family’s respect and goodwill into the fire by running away like this, she was too used to the good opinion of others not to crave it now. She’d long ago come to the conclusion that respect and indulgence were not necessarily mutually exclusive. But her entire personality had heretofore been built on restraint and cool placidity. In the span of just a few hours, the duke had seen her behave both recklessly and unthinkingly.
I am both things, she wanted to say—not only to Jarrell, but to everyone. Restrained and deeply feeling. Placid and agitated.
Cool-blooded and also so feverish sometimes that she felt flames burning along the inside of her skin.
Like this moment right now—she wasn’t only embarrassed. She was nervous and excited and scared of what would happen when she left this room, and hungry for more of what they’d just done in this room. She glanced down at the large hand currently resting on his knee as he sat with one leg drawn up, and she wondered how those long fingers and blunt fingertips would feel under her chemise. She looked back to his face and saw the shadow of his beard darkening his jaw, and she wanted to know how it would feel against her breasts.
She almost dared to ask but stopped herself at the last moment. She’d already used up an entire lifetime’s worth of boldness, and anyway, more serious things should be discussed now. She’d run away, and he’d caught her. There were only a few different things that could happen next, and Jarrell would be well within his rights to escort her firmly and grimly back to Far Hope if she wouldn’t go willingly.
Surely that was what he meant by choices.
She didn’t like the thought much, and she shivered, pulling the blanket tighter around her, as if she were already back out in the dark.
His brow furrowed even more; he shifted towards her and then shifted back right away, as if fighting some instinct. “Move closer to the fire,” he said, a bit gruffly. “You’ll be warmer.”
She obeyed, crawling forward enough that the warmth of the fire kissed her skin, and then she looked back at the duke, still sitting with his leg drawn up, still pinning her with a stare that seemed as hot as it was troubled. The hand draped over his knee flexed and fisted and flexed again. A muscle jumped in his jaw. She followed his gaze back to herself.
Oh.
The blanket had slipped. And the low-cut bodice of her chemise hid little—she imagined the light of the fire hid even less.
Goose bumps erupted everywhere, as if he was touching her with that restless, flexing hand and not only with his stare.
“Still cold?” Jarrell asked, voice rough, jaw tight. “Do you need another blanket?”
No, she wanted to say. Warm me up yourself. Push those big hands up my chemise. Cover me with your body.
The way he looked at her then—like he could read her thoughts. As if he could sense every depraved wish that flitted through her mind.
Could moments be many things all at once, as feelings were? Because this moment felt like that, like it was spilling over with possibilities and futures and promises, as if she was standing at one of those crossroads she’d craved so badly, with many lanes and byways branching off in every direction. And it was her choice where to step next.
She looked at his flexing hand, his dark eyes, his cruel mouth.
And she chose her next step.
“No. Don’t get another blanket. I want you to warm me.”
His lips, which had been pressed together so tightly she could see lines bracketing the corners of his mouth, parted. His hand flexed once on his knee, out and then back into a fist again. His fist was massive. He was massive.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. Slowly.
She’d run away, hadn’t she? She’d disguised herself and plunged into the wilderness. And wasn’t he here looking at her like he craved her as much as she craved him? Didn’t he look like it was taking every bit of his restraint to keep from grabbing her and kissing her?
She’d already seized one unwritten future for herself tonight, so why not another? Why not reach for what she wanted, for another hope beyond the mist?
She let the blanket slide all the way off her shoulders. “I want you to warm me, Your Grace.”
That jumping muscle in his jaw again.
A sharp swallow sliding down his throat.